Beyond the Line
by MP brennan
Summary: After Felix Gaeta is arrested on the eve of the planned mutiny, the crew of Galactica learns that some things are far beyond the control of any one man. AU after "A Disquiet Follows My Soul."
1. Arrested

Felix Gaeta limped slowly into the duty locker—still awkward on his faulty prosthetic. At 2300, the bunkroom was crowded, with those who had the early shifts already in their bunks, others gathered around the central table to play cards and drink. Felix's bunkmates parted to let him by without comment. He'd been using his peg leg long enough that it no longer attracted stares—aside from the rare occasions when he fell on his face.

Of course, there was one notable exception. Felix could feel Louis Hoshi's silent eyes on him from across the room. Felix did his best to ignore the other man as he made his way to his locker and unbuttoned his jacket. A tense silence hung between them, despite the low din of the card game. Felix had barely spoken to Louis since their return from that fateful Raptor mission. He couldn't afford to let him in now. Felix forced himself to put all this out of his mind. It was better this way, he knew. If tomorrow played out as planned, Louis would never forgive him, but he might come to understand.

And if anything went wrong . . . well, Felix would be damned if he took Louis down with him. He'd lost too many people he cared about already.

His eyes were drawn, as always, to Dee's empty rack and the faint brown stain on the bulkhead that all the cleaning in the world couldn't remove.

Felix shook himself and dropped into his rack, sighing with relief at the lessening pain in what remained of his leg. His hands moved automatically to loosen the cap of the prosthetic and slide it off his stump. He propped it against the bulkhead in easy reach, along with his cane. After removing his boot, he fell back against the dilapidated mattress and draped an arm over his eyes. For the thousandth time, he ran through a mental checklist. Everything was in place to ensure a swift, relatively bloodless change of power. Though a thousand things could still go wrong, Felix had done all that he could. He had just a few hours to sleep and prepare for what would surely be the longest day of his life.

He closed his eyes and wished it were that easy to shut down his spinning brain. He could see it all behind his lids—timetables, unit strengths, countermeasures. And Adama. Always Adama. Frakkin' Adama who couldn't have just let them all die honorably at the end of the worlds—who kept dragging them on from one fruitless dream to the next, and frak anybody who got hurt along the way. Frak what they used to stand for. Frak the people they left behind. Frak everything except him and Roslin and their pointless pipe dreams. No more. With this surrender, this deal with the devil, this alliance—whatever you want to call it—they'd gone too far.

In a few hours Adama would see that he couldn't go on ignoring the will of the people; that his oath demanded he stand up to the Cylons even when it seemed hopeless, even when it hurt him personally.

And then, very soon, he would see nothing ever again.

The stray thought hit Felix like a punch in the gut. Though this knowledge had been plaguing him all day, it had lost none of its sting. There had to be a clear-cut victory; Tom Zarek had been very blunt on this point. The only way to supplant the Old Man in the eyes of the crew and the fleet was to kill him. Quickly and decisively.

Felix rolled over and opened his eyes to stare at the blank bulkhead. How did it come to this? Saul Tigh. It always came back to Saul Tigh. He was a Cylon who had somehow infiltrated the highest levels of _Galactica _command. That he might not have been aware of his nature at first hardly mattered—Boomer hadn't known either, and look at the damage she'd done. He knew now, and there was no way he could be trusted as second-in-command in a war on his own people.

The Old Man Felix had first served under would have known what to do. He would have airlocked Tigh within minutes of learning his true nature. At the height of the war, Felix had stood next to Adama and watched as the Admiral gave the command to drop a nuclear missile on his own son's head. He had known—everyone in CIC had known—that it was the right decision, but like everyone else, Felix had been secretly glad that only Adama had to make the call. He was the only one strong enough to do what was necessary.

But that was then. Somewhere along the line, something had broken in William Adama. He'd let Tigh live. He'd let this bloody farce of an alliance continue. And now, there was only one way to stop the madness. He, Felix Gaeta, must have the strength to do what Bill Adama could not do—to end the life of someone he respected, even loved, for the good of the fleet—for the survival of humanity.

Once upon a time, the Old Man had valued the survival of their race above all else. If that man were here now, he would understand.

Felix rolled over and stared out at his bunkmates through lidded eyes. They were a tired bunch. Those at the table sat slumped over their worn cards, talking in muted voices. Those in their racks slept the sleep of the dead. There was something familiar and reassuring about the muffled chorus of snores and curses. This was home. Felix closed his eyes. One way or another, this would be the last night he spent in the duty locker.

There was a screeching clang as someone pushed the hatch open. Felix didn't bother opening his eyes. What did it matter if one more officer came or went?

But there came the muffled tread of many boots on the deck, and then the metallic scrape of chairs being pushed back as those at the table got to their feet. Felix growled in annoyance. Why did they have to make a big production out of it? Didn't they realize there were people trying to sleep?

Then came the sound that could not be ignored: the sharp click of safeties disengaging. Felix's eyes opened with a snap, and some tiny, distant part of him was not surprised to see a half-dozen Marines surrounding his bed, six black rifles pointed at his chest.

Most of him, though, was preoccupied with not making any sudden moves.

Only when his vision began to go gray did Felix remember to breathe. His eyes darted carefully from faces to weapons and back again before coming to rest on the woman who strode forward, preternaturally confident in her khaki fatigues.

"Felix Gaeta."

Felix swallowed. "Sergeant Hadrian."

"By order of the Admiral, you are being taken into custody. Stand up."

Felix glanced deliberately from her eyes to his missing leg and back again. Slowly, he sat up and reached for his prosthetic, stopping only when the muzzle of a rifle connected with the back of his hand. Drawing a measured breath, Felix reached instead for his cane and raised himself unsteadily to his . . . foot.

Hadrian gave the Marines a curt nod. "Search his living space." The master-at-arms stood aside, and Felix limped past her to brace himself against the table.

Tiny details stood out in Felix's mind. The corrugated deck was cold under his bare foot. The triad players had abandoned their game, dropping the cards to rest face up. The hand closest to Felix was one card short of a full straight. The players themselves stood back, apparently shocked into silence. Felix didn't want to look at them, but duty demanded it. Skulls was the only member of his conspiracy currently present. Felix locked eyes with the ECO and shook his head ever so slightly. The last thing he needed was for his people to get killed in some misguided rescue attempt.

"What's going on?" Felix's head snapped around at the familiar voice. Across the room, Louis slowly rose to his feet.

Sergeant Hadrian's face didn't change. "It's none of your concern, Lieutenant Hoshi."

Louis took in Felix, Hadrian, and the six Marines who were efficiently stripping Felix's bed and shook his head. "Like hell. What is _Lieutenant _Gaeta being charged with?"

"That's need to know, _sir._"

"You can't just . . ."

"Leave it alone, Louis," Felix interrupted quickly, studying his hands, "I'm sure it's all just a misunderstanding."

Sergeant Hadrian snorted, but made no comment.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

After thoroughly and fruitlessly pawing through his few possessions, they took Felix to the brig. If things had been less serious, Felix might have been darkly amused by Hadrian's attempts to handcuff him. It took much explaining before the woman would accept that unless they wanted to bodily carry him, he needed his hands free to manage the cane.

It all passed in a blur—the arrest, the search, the long walk at gunpoint past countless staring crew members—and then they left him alone in the cell to wonder where he'd gone wrong as the minutes slowly ticked away.

How much did they know? How much was guesswork? Was Felix about to be joined by his entire force? He wouldn't be here unless Adama had evidence. Felix desperately wracked his brain. Could he have slipped up? Yes. His mind quickly zeroed in on a dozen times and places where he could have slipped his hand—said the wrong thing to the wrong person.

It all depended on what they had on him. Random connections with low-level crew and civilians could be explained away. The plan could move forward—with some reworking. But if they had the complete picture . . . well, he and everyone who'd pledged support to him could pretty much kiss their asses goodbye.

After a few minutes—or maybe it was hours—the hatch clanged open to admit an older officer with a very disagreeable expression. The Marine behind the desk sprang to his feet and offered a quick salute. The officer returned the gesture—roughly, because with his right eye gone he could no longer judge where his hand ended up. Felix nervously edged forward on his cot. This was serious.

Saul Tigh strode a few paces into the room and stood staring at the bulkhead. "You're dismissed," he growled at the Marine.

As the guard departed, the one-eyed Cylon slowly drew a chair from behind the desk. Felix winced at the scrape of metal on metal. Tigh slowly sat down, and Felix wetted his lips, trying not to let his nervousness show. "May I ask what's going on, sir?"

"We'll get to that, Lieutenant. First, let's clear the air."

"I . . . beg your pardon?"

"Better out than in. It's clear you've got a fart building in your ass, so let's hear it before the stink gets any worse. What is it this time? 'Frakkin' toaster son of a bitch'? Classic. 'Bastard skin-job'? Lacks creativity. 'Frakked-up spawn of a kitchen appliance'? That one even made _me_ laugh."

Felix said nothing.

Tigh leaned forward. "You think I don't hear what you and your little friends say when you think nobody's listening? Come on, let's have it if you think a few more will make a difference."

Felix looked away.

"No? Alright, Lieutenant, then let's assume—just for the sake of argument—that in addition to being a frakked-up toaster skin-job I am the XO of this ship and your superior officer. Can we do that?"

"Yes sir." Felix's voice was icy.

Somehow, the absence of an eye didn't detract at all from Tigh's trademark arched-eyebrow glare. "It seems you've been making some new friends, Mr. Gaeta."

Felix swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about." That much, at least, was true. He could be referring to the civilians Felix had recruited in Dogville or the NCO's who'd offered him support or the officers who'd helped him plan the whole operation.

"Then let me refresh your memory." Tigh pulled a small tape recorder from his pocket and set it on the desk. He pressed a button and a familiar voice echoed out of it.

"_Every revolution begins with one small act of courage . . ."_

It was all Felix could do to keep from cursing. Bugs. Why hadn't he thought of that? He'd _participated_ in Baltar's taped interrogations. He should have realized that command would be interested in anything Zarek said.

Tigh leaned back in his chair as if he were watching a pyramid game or listening to a symphony. "Quite the righteous statesman, isn't he? It's almost enough to make you forget he's a raving lunatic."

Felix said nothing. He didn't have to because his own voice was already filling the room.

"_The world is frakked . . ."_

Felix looked away. This was both the best and worst thing that he could have been arrested for—best because if all they had was the link between him and Zarek then the people he'd recruited were safe, worst because if they had Zarek the movement was pretty much over. He and the Vice President might be the only ones to take the fall, but everyone would suffer the consequences from their inaction.

He had to see this through to the end. "Is this really worth so much excitement? All I hear is a conversation between myself and the Vice President of the Colonies."

Tigh's eyebrows shot up further. "Really? Because what I hear is a conversation between a terrorist and a Colonial officer in which they plot to spread mutiny and sedition aboard a military vessel. Who else is in on it?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Don't frak with me Gaeta—there's no way you and your pal there pull of this little revolution all by your lonesome. I want your cohorts—I want names. Or you can get real used to the inside of that cell."

So, there it was—the ultimatum. Felix blinked. "There are no _cohorts, _sir. I was not planning a mutiny; I was simply pledging my support to a political figure who's been arrested and held without charge."

Tigh snorted. "So, that bit about 'deadly consequences' went right over your head, did it? You're not that stupid, Gaeta, and neither am I." The Cylon stood and scooped up the tape recorder in one smooth motion. "I'll be back when you're ready to talk. Have a . . . comfortable stay." He rapped on the hatch and the Marine swung it open. Tigh glanced at the guard as he left. "Leave the light on."

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

As the hatch closed behind him, Saul Tigh was greeted by slow, sarcastic applause. Turning—he _hated _it when people snuck up on his right—he growled when he saw who it was. "What the frak are you doing here, Starbuck?"

She shrugged lazily, the gesture hindered by the bottle of ambrosia she kept tucked under her arm like a security blanket. "_Galactica's _a small town. After the ruckus Hadrian made, I'm surprised half the crew isn't down here to gawk."

"'Half the crew' knows I'd have their asses if they left their stations. Don't you have some nuggets you could be terrorizing?"

Starbuck shrugged and took a deliberate draught. "I'm off the clock." She advanced a few predatory steps. "And today, it doesn't look like I'm the slacker." A smirk tugged at her lips. "Was that the best you could do, Colonel? You didn't even break a sweat."

Saul's eye narrowed. "Make sense or shut up, Thrace."

"No bloody knuckles. No panicked medics rushing in. Gaeta's back in there having a good laugh at your expense."

"What the frak has gotten into you?"

Her smirk split into a hard-edged sardonic grin. "That is the question, isn't it? The walls are thin. I know what Gaeta was planning. And I can't believe that knowing that, you're just letting him nap his troubles away."

"You have all the subtlety of a nuclear bomb."

She took another swig from the bottle and stepped even closer, so close that he could smell the liquor on her breath. Silently, she offered him a drink. Saul leaned back. "Seems like you're going strong enough for both of us."

"What's the matter? Is it bad for your gears?"

He resisted the almost overwhelming urge to hit her. "Something like that."

All traces of a smile fell from her features. "I entertained a mutiny once. And I paid the price."

"Is that so? Because from what I remember of the _price, _it seems like Gaeta paid most of it."

Her eyes flashed_. _"I can't believe you're defending that little frak."

"What do you expect me to do, Starbuck? He didn't kill anyone or damage any equipment or even strike a superior officer. All he did was talk to a walking waste of space."

"I _expect _you to protect this ship. We're not safe until we know who his little pals are."

Saul clenched his jaw. She was _so far _over the line . . . "And you think I should beat it out of him?"

"It's worth a shot."

"Are you even listening to yourself? This is a fellow officer we're talking about."

"A mutiny is like an infection. Maybe it feels like an annoyance at first. You ignore it, hope it'll go away. But, it gets into people. Turns them into something else. Takes away what you thought they were . . ." She trailed off and took a long drink. "You're not gonna finish this with the kid gloves still on."

Saul stared. It had been a long time since he'd seen her so . . . broken. A long time, but not forever. "What happened to you, Thrace?"

This time, her grin was tinged with hysteria. "I don't _frakkin'_ know."

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

"This is bad. This is really bad."

"We get the picture. Shut up."

"What are we going to do?"

"What can we do? They arrested him."

"They'll be coming for us soon."

"Don't be an idiot; Gaeta won't give us up."

"He might not have a choice. Or have you forgotten that a Cylon is wearing Colonel pins?"

"Gaeta's a rock. This whole thing was his idea; he won't let us take the fall."

"What about the plan?"

"What about it? We're best off forgetting it."

"Look, this thing might have been Felix's idea, but it's bigger than him. Everything is still in place. Surely the loss of one man doesn't change that much. We can still bust the VP out. We can still remove Adama."

"And replace him with who? You?"

"Enough! This is pointless. Gaeta was the linchpin of this whole thing. Without him in CIC monitoring the situation and disrupting communications we'd be taken down before we could blink."

"The jailbreak doesn't require Gaeta. We could still get Zarek out."

"To what end? If Adama's still in command he'll just finish the Vice President sooner rather than later. And, we'll all go down with him."

"Hey, this is still the Old Man we're talking about—not some toaster."

"You sure about that?"

"He's many things, but he's not a murderer."

"Do you remember the work stoppage a while back?"

"Bunch of knuckledraggers with their panties in a knot?"

"Hey!"

"That's the one. Couple days after that, I got drunk with Tyrol."

"Big surprise."

"After we'd had a few, he started talking about the strike and how Adama stopped it."

"Recreating that idiot workers' union?"

"No. That was Roslin. And that was all after the fact. The strike was over by then. Adama had put a stop to it."

"How?"

"Remember Cally? Cute knuckledragger, married the Chief, they had a kid?"

"Costanza's kid."

"Of course I remember—everybody knew Cally."

"The Admiral told Tyrol that if he didn't stop the strike he would put Cally up against a bulkhead and shoot her as a mutineer."

"What?!! You're frakkin' with me!"

"Heard it from the Chief's own lips."

"Yeah, and toasters never lie."

"Does this really come as a surprise to any of you? Adama doesn't frak around with mutiny. That's why we can't go forward. Gaeta's probably a dead man. There's no reason for us to go down with him."

"No. The Admiral won't kill him. At least, not before he gets information from him—information about us."

"So we're all dead men! That's helpful, really."

"Would you shut up and listen? Adama is coming for all of us. The _only _way we can survive is to act first."

"But you just said it—we can't take the CIC without Gaeta!"

"Maybe not, but we can do something—something that will force Adama to take note of us. The first step in bringing him down."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Listen. Here's the plan . . ."

_TBC_


	2. Escalation

Bill Adama felt like there was sawdust collecting behind his eyes. He rubbed at them absently and reached for a stim pill to take the edge off. The other two men in his quarters pretended not to notice. Saul was pacing in front of his desk, hands clasped behind his back. "We may have lucked out on this one, Bill. I think we nipped it in the bud. Gaeta's still not talking, but he's obviously the brains behind the operation. The others—whoever they are—won't move without him."

"And yet, there are others," Bill's voice was rougher than usual, "Would-be mutineers walking around on my ship—flying my planes, working in my CIC."

"Don't take it personally; everyone's gone a little crazy since Earth. They just need to vent some steam."

Lee was slouched in his chair. He shook his head. "Felix Gaeta . . . I still can't believe he would do something like this."

Saul treated Lee to a sharp glare. "Well, that's the thing about _mutineers, _Mr. Adama. You never can see them coming."

"Enough," Bill growled. He had enough to worry about without his XO and his son sniping over ancient history. "Colonel, keep pressing Lt. Gaeta for information, but don't cross any lines you can't come back from—he's still a Colonial officer. Move Zarek to an isolated holding cell and review the Marine roster. Make sure the guards with access to him are completely loyal—I don't want any more late night visits from disgruntled officers." Tigh nodded and left.

Bill turned his attention to his son. "Lee, inform the Quorum that Mr. Zarek is being removed from office on charges of inciting mutiny and sedition aboard a military vessel. Any and all questions and objections are to be referred directly to this office."

Lee hesitated. "There are procedures that have to be followed—criminal charges, impeachment hearings . . ."

"Frak the hearings. I'm putting this fire out now. We'll deal with the fallout once Zarek has lost the power to influence my crew."

"But that's just it—the longer he's behind bars the more influence he'll gain. You saw that with President Roslin—"

"I haven't forgotten. Zarek is no Roslin. He has charisma, but more importantly, he has connections. He's ten times more dangerous out there than he could ever be in a cell. Mutiny is a military issue. Talk to the Quorum."

Lee looked away. "How is the President?"

"The same. I'll talk to her tonight."

"Will it do any good this time?"

"Lee." He waited until his son met his gaze.

The younger man stood with a rueful sigh. "I'll talk to them, but they're still pretty pissed over the He Te Khan. I wouldn't count on their support." He headed for the door then turned. "I hate to say it, but I'm starting to miss the days when all I had to do was shoot things."

That startled a slight smile out of Bill. "Bite your tongue. If it comes to shooting over this we're all screwed."

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

_Slap, slap, slap._

The battered running shoes she'd found made a strange sound on _Galactica's _metal decks—less heavy than the boots Bill's people wore, not as sharp as the heels she'd practically lived in for the last four years.

Laura Roslin smiled.

Crewmen left and right parted as she jogged by. The majority of the crew was used to her antics by now. Running through the corridors in sweats no longer attracted stares.

She powered up a half flight of stairs and closed her eyes, relishing the unfamiliar burn in her muscles, the sweat on her face, the reminder that she wasn't dead yet. For the first time in weeks, she felt like more than a dried-up shell. Blood and life coursed through her with every beat of her tired heart.

She paused in an isolated corridor. Her head scarf was coming undone. She peeled the damp material off her scalp and set about tying it more securely.

Her attention on the head wrap, she never saw them approach. Her first clue that something was wrong came when a black cloth closed suddenly over her mouth and nose. Letting out a startled cry, she tried to push the material away, but strong arms closed around her from behind. Laura instinctively stopped breathing rather than inhale whatever was on the cloth. She struggled against the restraining arms, but her diloxin-ruined muscles were no match for the bulging biceps of her assailant.

Her thoughts were becoming fuzzy. She would have to breathe soon. She felt her head wrap fall to the ground, and some distant part of her was embarrassed that her attacker now had an up-close view of her bare skull.

Her diaphragm contracted of its own volition and noxious fumes hit her lungs. She choked. Her eyes teared. Bright spots appeared behind her closed lids. She had time for a single thought.

_Oh, frak._

And then she knew no more.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

"This is insane."

"You've been saying that for the past hour. Find a new song."

"I mean it; this isn't what I signed up for."

"So go hide in your rack and cry. Nobody's making you come along."

"Frak you."

"Cut it out, both of you. Bickering gets us nowhere. Now, nobody wants to be doing this, but we all agreed it's the only way."

"The only . . . come on, she's the President of the Colonies! When they catch us . . ."

"What's the matter, you scared of mean old Papa Adama?"

"Would you shut up and listen for once? This is treason."

"Pipe down. It's not treason."

"It's the _definition _of treason!"

"So what was Gaeta planning, huh? Civil disobedience?"

"You're not helping. Look, I know this is a big leap we're taking. But remember that this all started with Roslin. Her title doesn't give her the right to forge an alliance with the machines who murdered ninety-nine percent of our race."

"You've been listening to Gaeta's speeches for too long."

"If you don't think he's right, then why are you here? My point is, _she's _the one guilty of treason. Her and the Adamas and everyone else who's supporting this frakked-up deal with the devil. _We're _fulfilling our oaths to protect and defend the Colonies."

"Speak for yourself."

"And you civilians are clearly here out of a sense of civic duty."

"Sure."

"So what now? 'Cause I'm really starting to doubt that the Old Man will just wake up one morning and see things our way."

"He won't have a choice. He abdicates the throne or his honey takes a spacewalk."

"Tell me you don't buy into that nonsense about them frakking?"

"It's irrelevant at this point. You—you have the means to get her off the ship?"

"Yeah, everything's in place—shady friends . . ."

"I don't want to hear about it. Every part of this plan stay compartmentalized, so if he takes down one of us he can't find us all."

"Unless, of course, Gaeta squeals."

"He's not gonna talk, we've been over this."

"We have some time, but securing Felix's release has to be one of our first priorities."

"That might not be such a good idea. If they don't already have proof of his guilt, us demanding his freedom is sure to tip our hand and ruin whatever game he's got going with the Admiral."

"Good point . . . Zarek, then. We'll hardly be the first to call for his release. Once he's out, he can take control of the Quorum, exert pressure on Adama. What do you think?"

"It doesn't solve all our problems, but it's a start."

"I'm in."

"Check with your people—both of you. Make sure everyone's onboard. Anybody can't handle it, we cut them loose now before things get any worse. Because believe me, they are going to get worse."

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

A bright swatch of color caught Bill's eye. It fluttered slightly from the air purifier— pale green against the blank gray of the corridor.

Bill picked it up and turned it over in his hands. The soft material was cold. There was no mistaking it—Laura's head wrap.

It still smelled like her.

Bill's hands trembled. The deck seemed to spin under his feet. People didn't just vanish. They lived, they died, but they weren't just spirited away like in some fairy tale. Bill shook himself. If he was having thoughts like this, he really needed to cut back. He forced himself to focus on the crisis at hand.

Something had happened. He didn't know what, he didn't know how. No one had seen Laura being taken. And yet, she must have been taken.

She wouldn't just vanish.

The crackle of the PA drew the Admiral out of his hopeless reverie. Colonel Tigh's voice rolled through the static. _"Pass the word to the Admiral; he's needed in the CIC. Repeat, pass the word: Admiral Adama to CIC."_

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Bill made it to the CIC in half the time it normally took him. Saul looked up from the command table to see the Admiral striding towards him, his face inscrutable as always, his hands knotted in some kind of cloth. His voice was stormy. "What do we have?"

Saul straightened, but kept one hand on the table rather than come to full military attention. "Take a breath, sir. No one's been hurt—yet."

Adama glared daggers at him. "What. Do. We. Have?"

Saul sighed. It seemed his attempts to handle this delicately would only make it worse. _Never did care for delicate anyway, _he thought wryly. "We have a wireless broadcast from somewhere in the fleet. There's a group calling themselves the Voice of the People. They're claiming they 'detained' the President of the Colonies on charges of collaborating with the Cylons. The only way they'll consider 'pardoning' her is if we—well, _you, _at least—release Zarek, instate him as President and 'sever ties' with the Cylons."

" 'Sever ties with the Cylons'? They used those exact words? Not 'the Baseship,' 'the Cylons'?"

"Yeah." _So, they're definitely not in my fan club._

Bill growled. "Just what we need—another fringe group taking hostages and sowing chaos."

Saul looked up. "Thing is, Admiral, this one might not be quite so _fringe._"

A heavy silence fell over the CIC. Private Jaffey coughed and the sound echoed. Adama glanced from face to solemn face. "Mr. Hoshi," he croaked at last, "You have the deck." Without another word, Bill grabbed Saul by the arm and practically pulled him bodily from the room. "What are you saying, Saul?" he hissed once they reached the relative privacy of the corridor.

The Colonel refused to be cowed by the fire in the Admiral's eyes. "_Think _about it, Bill," he responded in the same tone, "They took her from the _Galactica—_right out from under our noses! Whoever did it knew this ship and knew her routine. We're looking at an inside job."

"I do not believe that anyone on this crew would commit treason."

"Please, Admiral, less than twenty-four hours ago you arrested one of our best officers for plotting a _mutiny._"

For a moment, Adama tried to stare him down. Saul met his gaze unflinchingly. It was the Admiral who looked away. "I feel like I don't even know this crew anymore, Saul." His voice was low. Saul could tell the words cost him pain. "I used to believe they were my family. I relied on their loyalty unconditionally. Now, it seems like my ship is being ripped apart at the seams by the very men and women I counted on to hold it together."

Saul swallowed. The Admiral's anger was gone, replaced by a hopelessness that was much more frightening. "They've lost their way, Bill. They're confused and scared and pissed as all hell. They'll come back. Deep down, these people trust you. They'll remember how we got this far. Until then, one crisis at a time."

Adama stared fixedly at the bulkhead. "You think there's a connection between Gaeta and these kidnappers?"

"Hard to say. Not a direct one, I don't think. Gaeta's pissed, but he's far too by-the-book to plan a kidnapping. I'd say it's more Zarek's style, but I know for a fact that he hasn't had visitors. We're probably dealing with some of his shady friends."

"We won't get anything out of Zarek."

"Probably not; no. He's made a career out of this kind of stunt."

"But if Gaeta was colluding with him, there's a good chance he knows who these 'friends' are and who on the _Galactica _is helping them."

"I'll go increase the pressure."

"No," the Admiral's face had resumed its stony composure. "Talk to Hadrian. Tell her I want to know names and stations of every person Gaeta's _talked _to in the last week. I'll go to the brig. I think it's time the Lieutenant and I had an abrupt conversation."

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Bill stormed into the brig and took quick stock of the situation. The room was empty save for the single guard behind the desk and Felix Gaeta slumped on his cot in the closer cell.

The Lieutenant didn't look well. His uncharacteristically pale face sported a slight sheen of sweat and faint dark circles under both eyes. According to the guard's report, Gaeta hadn't slept since his arrest the day before.

Bill didn't care. The young officer sat slouched on his cot like it was a recliner, his prosthetic propped off to one side. His head was thrown back, and the expression on his face when he saw the Admiral . . . it was a smirk. There was no other word for Gaeta's sarcastic half-smile. Zak had perfected that expression as a teenager, chosen for the assurance of getting a rise out of Bill. It had angered him—seeing that sneer on the face of his son. It infuriated him to see it now on the face of this would-be mutineer.

"Open it," he growled at the Marine. The cell door rolled open with an ominous clank.

To his credit, Lieutenant Gaeta did attempt to sit up as Bill strode into his cell.

"Admiral," his voice held the same sarcastic tone reflected in his body language. "I'd stand, but . . . well . . ."

"Who are they?"

Though clearly unsettled by the controlled rage in Bill's voice, Gaeta did his best to maintain both his composure and his smirk. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your little friends. Who are they?"

"While I have no idea what you're talking about, I'm sure that any hypothetical friends I might have would prefer the term 'vertically-challenged.'"

Before the words were fully out of Gaeta's mouth, Bill grabbed the metal table to his left and tipped it over, sending a tray of dishes flying, narrowly missing the smart-mouthed Lieutenant. Gaeta jumped at the sudden din and looked up at the Admiral with something akin to fear in his eyes.

All things considered, Bill was rather glad that he'd resisted his first instinct, which was to treat Gaeta himself much as he'd treated the table.

"Your co-conspirators." Bill sounded out every syllable slowly, and was rewarded by a glimmer of panic that appeared in Gaeta's eyes before being blinked away. "I want their names and I want them now."

All sarcasm had fled Gaeta's face, but the kid seemed determined to stick to his guns. "There was no conspiracy, much less co-conspirators, sir." Bill reflected that Lee had been a better liar at the age of five.

He glared at the Lieutenant. "Do not frak with me, Mr. Gaeta. This ends right here, right now. One or more of your _little friends _had a hand in kidnapping the President of the Colonies off of this very ship. You are going to give me their names and I'm ending this madness right now."

Gaeta's eyes widened. His face paled further. He bore little resemblance to the wise-ass who'd greeted Bill only minutes earlier. "Roslin's been kidnapped?"

"_President _Roslin has been taken hostage by a group demanding the release of your new friend Zarek. I don't think I need to tell you just how serious this is."

Gaeta stared down at his hands. "Frak."

"Names, Mr. Gaeta."

He looked up and there was a definite note of desperation in his voice. "I'm not the first person to side with Zarek and I won't be the last. He has supporters throughout the fleet. Any one of them could have—"

"Infiltrated the _Galactica, _gained intimate knowledge of both its layout and the President's routine, seized President Roslin in the middle of the day shift, and extracted her without raising any suspicions? Don't make me laugh, Mr. Gaeta; she was taken by at least one—probably several—members of this crew. And you are the _only _officer on this ship to have contact with Zarek in the last seventy-two hours."

"I had _nothing _to do with this, sir. I don't believe in terrorism as a means of protest."

"That's debatable. The fact remains that you were recruiting mutineers who may or may not share your ethical absolutes. I want their names."

"Why, so you can arrest them and hold them without charge based solely on guilt-by-association?" Anger began to leak through the strain in Gaeta's voice.

Bill took a deep breath and counted to ten before he could trust himself to respond. "If it turns out they were not involved in this latest act of _treason, _that will be taken into account."

"My people weren't involved in what happened to President Roslin."

"You a psychic now?"

"They wouldn't . . . I'm sorry, sir, but I won't let you destroy their careers over something I'm sure they had no part in. There were no co-conspirators. That's my official statement."

Bill closed his eyes before he could begin to see red. He knew intellectually that it would do no good to browbeat Gaeta while the Lieutenant remained locked in denial. As good as it might feel to rough Gaeta up—verbally or physically—Laura needed him to be smart about this, and that meant waiting until the younger man was ready to talk. As soon as Gaeta got over his misguided loyalty to the mutineers, he would have plenty to say.

Bill took one deliberate step towards Gaeta and watched the other man shrink back almost imperceptibly. He stared down at the Lieutenant for a moment, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a portable tape recorder. "We'll talk again soon. In the meantime . . ." He tossed the small device and Gaeta caught it reflexively. "This is the broadcast your friendssent out detailing their crime. Have a listen . . . and then ask yourself whether these _terrorists _really deserve your loyalty."

He left the brig without another word.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

A cramp in her arm slowly drew Laura Roslin out of her hazy half-consciousness. She rolled her shoulders irritably, trying to get comfortable, only to stop when the motion resulted in a terrifyingly familiar tug on her wrists. She froze. For about thirty seconds she didn't even breathe. Slowly—gingerly—she tried to move her arms. The fingers of her right hand felt thick and sluggish. Her left she couldn't feel at all—there was just a tingling pain from the elbow down where her arm should have been. It was this pain that had roused her from her stupor.

But then . . . she tried to raise her right arm, and this time there was no mistaking the sensation: the sharp bite of thin plastic handcuffs into raw skin.

With this sudden revelation, her disoriented brain quickly began to resolve the jumbled mess of sensations. She was lying on her left side on some kind of thin mattress. A blindfold was bound tightly around her head. And her arms . . . her wrists were tied behind her with the kind of cheap, disposable restraints she was so familiar with. And with that, her first coherent thought took shape.

_Frak. It was a dream. _A pretty good dream, for the most part, and vivid. The exodus, the Eye of Jupiter, the Ionian Nebula . . . the alliance, Earth (well, that was a pretty frakked-up part, but still) . . . returning to the presidency . . . falling for Bill Adama . . . None of it was real because she was clearly still in her cell, and any minute now Cavil or Doral would be sauntering in to start the next round of interrogations.

_And yet . . . _As her faculties slowly returned, Laura gathered a few pieces of circumstantial evidence that contradicted her assumption. For one thing, she'd never had that good of an imagination. For another, the surface under her was definitely a cot and the slight vibration through the mattress suggested a ship—both of which would have been out of place in the bare concrete cells of the New Caprica detention facility. And, most telling of all, she could feel the slight breeze of an air vent blowing on her distinctively bald skull.

_Then, what . . . ? _It suddenly rushed back in a nightmarish blur.

_Jogging on _Galactica . . .

_From behind . . . an attacker . . ._

_A cloth . . . can't breathe . . . can't fight . . ._

_Have to breathe . . . then choking . . . gasping . . . then blackness . . ._

_Blackness . . ._

Laura gasped. Her throat worked as she bit back a scream.


	3. Resolved

There were a few hours left in his watch, and Bill was fighting the headache to end all headaches. He stubbornly resisted reaching for a stim pill, even when bright spots began to appear in his field of view. It wouldn't do for the CIC staff to see a sign of weakness—especially now.

No one mentioned it, but the crew kept stealing glances at Felix Gaeta's station, where Lieutenant Hoshi sat with his jaw clenched. Though there had been no official word, the story of Gaeta's mysterious arrest had spread through _Galactica's _rumor mill at a speed usually reserved for speculation about Colonel Tigh's sex life. Theories abounded as to the charges, and far too many hit close to the truth. As far as Bill knew, the tale had not yet made the jump to the civilian fleet, but he suspected it was only a matter of time.

Hoshi cleared his throat. "Ah, DRADIS contact, bearing one-one-eight-karem-oh-six-niner."

Colonel Tigh looked up from across the table. "What do we have, Lieutenant?"

"It's hard to say, sir; no transponders, Cylon or Colonial. It's pretty small—maybe fighter sized. The image keeps flickering out . . ." The lieutenant raised a hand as if to hit the console, only to be stopped by a glare from the Colonel.

An unfamiliar knot was growing in the pit of Bill's stomach. He shook himself and glanced at the display. "Where's the CAP?"

"Showboat's four minutes away with two nuggets."

"Order them to intercept. Alert the civilian fleet and put them on standby."

"Yes sir. Ah, hang on . . ." This time, Hoshi actually did rap on the console a few times. "The contact just disappeared. There's no sign of it on DRADIS."

"Could it have jumped away?"

"It's unlikely, sir; it was right on top of the _Gemenon Traveler_ when it blipped out, and they're not reporting any power fluctuations."

"Get them on the horn to confirm."

"Aye, sir." The young petty officer at the communications station spoke softly into his headset, then looked up, puzzled. "Sir, the captain of the _Gemenon_ _Traveler_ confirms all systems are normal. Their DRADIS didn't show anything."

Tigh swore under his breath. "Frakkin' equipment failures. Redirect the CAP. Looks like a false alarm."

"Belay that," Bill snapped out suddenly, "Order the air patrol to close to the bogie's last detected position and conduct an eyeball search of the surrounding region."

Bill's XO shrugged, but got on the horn. It was a tense few minutes. The cold knot in Bill's gut only seemed to grow. At long last, the new communications officer shook his head. "Showboat reports all clear."

A relieved murmur ran through the CIC. Bill stared at the DRADIS screen. The knot didn't loosen. "Order her to expand search parameters by a half a click. Tell the Baseship to come about, and have the civilian fleet spool up their FTL drives."

Colonel Tigh looked up. "Over a DRADIS ghost? It's an equipment failure, not an attack."

"We don't know that. It could be a trick, and I don't want to be blindsided." Bill stared down at his fists, clenched on the table top. "We can't let them blindside us . . ."

"Showboat reports stillnothing. The civilians are confused and the Baseship is requesting information. They're launching Heavy Raiders."

"Sir, the DRADIS screen is _still _clear."

"Captain of the _Gemenon Traveler_ is on the line again. He wants to know why the Baseship is closing on their position."

"Launch the alert Vipers and order the civilian fleet to execute jump to emergency coordinates." Can't be taken by surprise . . .

"Belay that last." Tigh's voice was sharp now. "Admiral, we don't have that kind of fuel to burn. Plus, our Air Wing is depleted—if we launch the alert Vipers we'll have no reserves if an actual strike force arrives. Now, the CAP didn't see anything. The Baseship didn't see anything. Even the _Traveler_ didn't see anything, and the Gemonese are _always_ seeing ghosts! The only evidence of this bogie is a blip on our forty-year-old DRADIS screen."

Bill glared at Saul. The Colonel returned the look coolly. He was always calm when he knew he was right. After a moment, Bill had to look away. He sighed.

"Get on the horn. Redirect the CAP and tell the civilians to spool down their FTL's. And, somebody explain to the Baseship and the _Traveler_ before they start shooting at each other. Colonel Tigh, you have the deck." Between the fire in his head and the ice in his gut, Bill just couldn't think straight.

Heading back to his quarters, he wasn't entirely surprised to hear the thud of boots behind him. After a moment, Saul fell in next to him.

"I left you the deck, Colonel."

"Hoshi can handle it. You mind telling me what the hell went on back there?"

"Aside from one of my subordinates directly contradicting my orders in front of the entire CIC staff?"

"Give it a rest, Admiral, your orders don't usually include wild goose chases that burn fuel and put the fleet at risk over DRADIS ghosts."

Bill had no response. Saul paused. "It's this thing with Roslin, isn't it? Well, you need to get your head screwed on straight, Bill."

"It's not that simple."

"Never said it was, but have another little breakdown and the fleet will suffer."

Bill almost didn't respond. When he spoke, his words were pained. "I think I need some time—just until we get the President back. I want to devote all of my energies to the investigation."

"That's all well and good, but who are you going to give the stars to? The fleet's a little short on qualified Admirals at the moment."

"You've commanded before."

"Bill . . ." Saul stopped and folded his arms, forcing Bill to halt as well. "When are you going to get it through your head that I am a _Cylon?_ You can't just hand over _Galactica _again; the civilians will go nuts and the crew will be calling for both our heads within a day."

Bill glanced away. "Frak."

"That about sums it up. Look, we just got off the horn with Lee. He's landing right now with word from the Quorum. I told him to meet you in quarters. Now, I've gotta go back and keep the trains running. Get that lunatic idea out of your head right now. I don't want to command, I've _never _wanted to command, and being a Cylon, it's pretty damn certain that I'll never _get _to command."

Bill smiled faintly. "Understood."

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Bill stared at his son as if he'd started speaking in tongues. "They're expressing _what?_"

Lee ran a tired hand over his face. "Concern. The Quorum is officially expressing concern over the situation with President Roslin. They've also issued a statement publically condemning the use of violence and coercion as a means to a political end. I fought long and hard for a stronger condemnation, but they won't do it, just like they won't call out Zarek for this."

"The President of the Colonies is taken against her will, and the Quorum can't decide if it's wrong?"

Lee leaned forward. "Look, I know you don't want to hear this—"

"What was your first clue?"

"—but no one has seen or heard from President Roslin since Earth. There were rumors that she'd died and you were covering it up to maintain power. As far as half the Quorum representatives are concerned, _Galactica _is holding the rightful President of the Colonies against his will. They're too squeamish to do anything about it themselves, but they don't mind seeing Command thrown in a bind by these terrorists. Some are even calling the Voice of the People an organization of freedom fighters."

"Who's saying that?"

"Nice try. Sessions are closed for a reason, and we still have free speech in this fleet. I'm only telling you so that you know what you're up against politically. There are a lot of issues that need to be worked out before the Quorum can give you the support you need."

"So fix it."

"Dad! I've been trying to tell you it is Not. That. Simple! With Zarek in prison, there's no clear successor to President Roslin, and if I try to take control it will just be seen as another proxy attempt by you to exert dictatorial influence over the elected government. I'll do what I can, but it's a mess over there."

For a long moment, Bill didn't respond. It wasn't as though any of this were all that unexpected.

"Are you telling me that the civilian government is completely nonfunctional and there are no fallback procedures in place for selecting an interim president?"

Lee sighed. "Such a motion would never pass a vote—no matter who the candidate is. Some of the Representatives aren't convinced that we even need an interim leader—they're demanding Zarek's release and inauguration. So, yeah, it's pretty much broken."

Bill slowly opened his desk drawer and removed two sheets of paper. He lifted a pen as though it weighed a hundred pounds and signed the top sheet. "Then, as of this moment I am declaring martial law."

Lee's head snapped up and his eyes widened as if he'd seen a ghost. "What?"

"In light of this crisis of leadership, I am temporarily dissolving the Quorum of Twelve and assuming complete authority in President Roslin's stead."

"Tell me that you're kidding."

"No. It's not an easy call to make, but I won't let the politics of this situation interfere with ending this crisis."

"You're insane! This goes against . . . your oath as an officer and . . . President Roslin's wishes and . . . everything! What about the Articles of Colonization? Remember them?"

"I remember them very well. But given the choice between protecting the Articles and protecting the people, I'll take the people any day of the week."

"You can't be serious."

Bill removed his reading glasses and studied his son. "You're not going to change my mind on this, Lee."

"You can't . . ." Lee trailed off and buried his face in his hands, clearly wishing he hadn't gotten out of bed that morning. His next words were muffled. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

Bill pulled out the second sheet of paper. "Well, I've been thinking about that."

Lee looked up. "Why am I not reassured?"

"Under martial law I have broad discretion to impose such policies as are necessary for the safeguarding of the civilian population. Among those powers is the policy of conscription."

Lee stared at his father as if the Admiral had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. "Conscription." His voice suggested that he was humoring the dangerous lunatic.

"Obviously, it's not practical as a broad policy, but at the moment, the fleet has some very specific needs."

"Such as?"

"Such as a new CO for the flagship _Galactica._"

Lee didn't respond for a full ten seconds. When he did, his voice was laced with fury and disbelief. "I was under the impression that we _had _an Admiral. Arguably a Machiavellian _lunatic, _but an Admiral nonetheless." All things considered, it was one of the milder ripostes he could have offered.

Bill stared at his battered desk. His voice was heavy. "I can't do the job, son. This situation is clouding my judgment—affecting my calls on the most mundane events." He looked up. "I'm keeping my rank in name, but I need an officer under me who can handle the day-to-day in CIC until this situation with President Roslin is resolved."

"So, you want to supplant the civilian government, but you can't be bothered to do your own job?"

Bill stared at Lee for a long moment. Then he signed the second sheet of paper in one swift motion. "That was your parting shot. You're back in the military now; anymore talk like that and it's insubordination."

"And if I refuse to play your game?"

"Then it's dereliction of duty and you can go keep Mr. Gaeta company." Bill fished in his desk drawer until he found the small box he was looking for. Standing, he offered his son both the box and his hand. "Congratulations, Commander."

Lee just stared at him with the familiar expression of anger, indignation, and disappointment written across his face. Bill sighed. "The Fleet needs you, son."

Lee slowly stood and accepted the box containing his new insignia. Stepping back, he offered the Admiral a mockingly precise salute.

Bill returned it, trying to keep his hand steady and failing more than he knew.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

It was difficult for Louis Hoshi—sitting at Felix's station. He'd already found the slight groove under the console, where the boot of the other man's prosthetic had rubbed against the deck, leaving a slight indentation. The keyboard was so worn that the numbers and letters were barely visible anymore, and Louis knew that most of the fingerprints were Felix's. Officially, command wasn't commenting on what was happening with Felix or why he was being held. Trying to get information out of Sergeant Hadrian was like talking to a brick wall that liked to spout "classified" and "need to know" at random intervals.

Unofficially, the rumor mill had been after the scoop like a dog after a bone. Louis didn't put much stock in the talk. It was the usual crazy theories, ranging from Felix being the final Cylon to Felix plotting a violent coup to take over the fleet—nonsense. But, Adama's silence had entered its third day, and Louis was going mad with worry.

He just prayed that whatever Felix had gotten himself mixed up in had nothing to do with this new insanity over President Roslin.

Colonel Tigh's barking voice pulled him out of his reverie. "Commander on deck!"

As Hoshi stood, turned, and came to attention, he took in a sight that was both expected and quite startling. Lee Adama was entering the CIC. He had abandoned his three-piece suits for the white-trimmed uniform he'd worn on _Pegasus_—or rather, one like it but several sizes smaller. The uniform was a familiar sight to Louis, though it looked slightly out-of-place when coupled with Lee's longer-than-regulation hair. Tigh had announced the change in command at the beginning of this shift—that wasn't what surprised Louis.

No, the shock came from the expression on Apollo's face.

Serving on the _Pegasus, _he'd accepted the common wisdom that labeled the Adamas as somewhat soft—slightly too squeamish for command. This impression had persisted despite Admiral Cain's death and the elder Adama's ascension to Admiral. When Lee was appointed as Commander of the i_Pegasus/i, _Louis, like most of his crewmates, had rolled his eyes and written it off as Adama's nepotism.

Over his eighteen month tenure, Commander Adama had done quite a bit to overcome that perception. He had shown himself to be capable yet open to input, cool yet empathetic, tough yet fair.

But, Louis had never seen him like this. At some point in the last few years, the younger Adama had developed a presence that bore no resemblance to the callow Commander Louis remembered. He seemed to fill the room. His back was straight, his face composed, and in his eyes there burned a fire unsettling to look at. Louis had seen its like only once before: in Admiral Adama's eyes just after the exodus from New Caprica.

Apollo strode to the command table and stopped a mere pace from Colonel Tigh. Their gazes locked, and a silent struggle of wills seemed to commence. Slowly, the Cylon Colonel raised his hand in a precise salute. Louis shivered. Was it just him, or did the gesture look more like the assertion of control than a symbol of respect? After a second that seemed to last an age, Commander Adama returned the salute, his motion equally precise.

The tension seemed to break as the CIC collectively exhaled. Apollo turned to survey the crew and offered a ghost of the amiable smile Louis remembered. "Relax, everyone, I think I remember how this all works. Stand to your duties. Petty Officer, how goes the resupply schedule?"

As the PO responded, Louis slowly sat and resumed monitoring the DRADIS screen. He was glad the Admiral had abdicated at least this small piece of the throne—he really was. Apollo was a good Commander and of the two Adamas, he nearly always had the clearer head.

And yet, some part of him had been glad to have Admiral Adama in the CIC where he could keep an eye on him.

He shook the thought away—it was crazy. He was letting his stress over the situation with Felix override his common sense. He was not afraid of the Old Man. He wasn't.

And yet . . . it had been three days, and it seemed as if Felix had vanished from the fleet entirely. There were no charges, no statements, no mention of his name. It wasn't right. Felix was an officer, godsdammit. Officers had rights under military code. It was a relationship of reciprocity; subordinates put their lives on the line for the ship and the mission, and in exchange their commanding officers were bound by sacred code to protect them when possible and to treat them with dignity at all times. That was what it meant to wear a uniform.

No more. He wouldn't spend his life afraid of Bill Adama. Louis resolved to confront Colonel Tigh at the end of his shift and demand transparency.

Louis was done keeping his head down; it was time to take a stand.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

"Was there something else, Commander?"

Lee approached Bill's desk and slid a pad of paper across it. "You're addressing the press in an hour. I wrote some notes for you."

Bill raised his eyebrows, wondering when Lee had found time to do that. "I appreciate it . . . but I _can _write my own remarks."

Lee snorted. "And how's that worked out for you in the past?"

Bill skimmed over the notes. It was good stuff—all about his imperative to protect the fleet and the need for unity in troubling times. All in all, it was much more likely to calm the civvies than the general 'frak you' Bill had planned. "How are things in CIC?"

The younger man shrugged. "Tense, but that's to be expected. I've ordered a full mechanical overhaul of the DRADIS, communications, weapons systems . . ."

"That's a big job."

"Exactly. The crew needs work—a goal to keep their minds off of . . . other events."

Bill nodded, impressed in spite of himself. "Good thinking."

"Of course, it's all just damage control. The crew won't really settle down until you're back in CIC."

Bill smiled sardonically. "I think you're overestimating my popularity."

"Popularity has nothing to do with it. You're the Old Man. They need you back at the top of your game."

Bill set the notes aside. "That'll be all, Commander."

Lee knew a dismissal when he heard it. In his wake, Bill bowed his head and ran his hands over his face. _Back in CIC . . . _He almost laughed. Lee spoke as though he were only taking a vacation.

"Am I interrupting, sir?"

Bill looked up and a half smile tugged at his face. "Of course not, Kara. Come in."

"Thank you, sir."

Bill could hardly miss the rare military tone. He leaned back. "What's on your mind, Starbuck?"

She stood before his desk, back straight, hands clasped behind her back. "I wanted to offer my help with the investigation."

"Thank you . . . but there's not much to be done right now. I've got Hadrian following up on leads. We'll know more soon." _I hope . . ._

"Gaeta still isn't talking?"

"Not yet."

"But you're convinced he knows more than he's telling?"

"It looks that way, yeah."

"Sir," she swallowed, "I can get the information from him. Give me an hour alone in the room with him, and I'll get the names of his co-conspirators."

As the reality of what she was suggesting set in, Bill's jaw clenched. "That's not an option, Starbuck."

"Sir, we both know this won't be settled by conventional means—"

Bill cut her off. "We're not discussing this, Captain. You're dismissed."

The CAG retreated without a word. Bill decided that the best course would be to forget this conversation had ever happened. Kara wasn't herself—none of them were since Earth. He'd have to keep a closer watch on her—make sure she didn't cross too many lines. She'd always been his most high-maintenance officer.

Wearily, Bill flipped through Sergeant Hadrian's report—a thick document that amounted to an exhaustive list of perfectly annotated dead ends. Gaeta had not made off-log calls, despite filling in at Dee's station for several shifts. Aside from his brief visit to Zarek's cell, he hadn't been seen anywhere he shouldn't have been. Interviews with his closest co-workers had not revealed anything suspicious. Hadrian did note—as though determined to find somesign of foul play—that in interviews with Gaeta himself, the Lieutenant had been tight-lipped and evasive. Hadrian was convinced that Gaeta knew _something, _but he was guarding his secrets well.

Bill all but slammed the report shut. His hands shook, and he reached for the clear bottle on the corner of his desk. Just a little to help him think . . . Amber fire burned its way down his throat and his hands clenched into fists. It was so _frustrating_—knowing that all the information he needed to save Laura, to put down the rebellion in the crew—was right this moment locked away just two decks down behind the smirking lips of Felix Gaeta. The answers were right _there, _but Bill had hardly a hope of getting to them unless . . . Unless. There was a way—one slim hope, just slightly more palatable than what Kara had proposed. A slender lifeline for Laura. But, if he used it, then _he _would be the one crossing the line—dishonoring the uniform. Betraying an officer.

He lowered the bottle slowly. He knew he should feel dismay—even revulsion—at the idea that had just crossed his mind, but he didn't. He only felt cold.

Completely cold.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Consciousness loomed for the second time. Laura shifted slightly. She wondered how many hours had passed since she'd made an ill-advised attempt to rise and lapsed back into unconsciousness. This time as awareness grew, she found herself lying on her stomach. Her shoulders ached and her arms burned from the elbows down, but at least she had circulation in both limbs.

She moved her head, trying to shift the blindfold to no avail. Based on the pressure, her kidnapper had likely wrapped the cloth over her eyes and reinforced it with rope to make the blindfold more difficult to remove. Doral had developed that trick on New Caprica.

"She's awake." Laura froze at the sudden voice, accompanied by the metallic scrape of a chair on the deck. _Male. Young. _ Some distant part of her noted. _Traces of an Aerelon accent._

"Right. You know the game plan. Get out of here." A second voice. Also male, though perhaps slightly older. Not much of an accent . . .

There was a faint shuffle of booted feet followed by the clang of a hatch. Left alone with the second man, Laura composed her face as best she could and willed her thudding heart to slow. She rolled onto her side and curled her legs up defensively.

Booted feet approached. Rough hands grabbed her shoulders and dragged her into a sitting position. The sudden motion made her head swim. She let out a muffled groan through a throat that felt like sandpaper. Her captor supported her with one arm and raised a straw to her lips with the other. Distorted memories flashed through her mind. The drug-induced haze made it hard to be sure, but she was almost positive that this wasn't the first time she'd been given a drink since being taken, which made a strong case for the presence of sedatives in the water.

It didn't really matter. Her throat throbbed, her head spun, and she knew enough of dehydration to realize that she had to drink regardless. She took a slow sip. Water. She swirled it over her parched tongue. It tasted clear, with none of the lingering tangs that would suggest drugs. She drank deeply. All too soon the cup was empty and her straw was pulling at air.

"Thank you." She said it quietly, but was rather pleased at the steadiness in her voice. Her captor merely grunted and stepped back. Laura wavered slightly as the arm was removed, but caught herself and settled cross-legged on the mattress. "What's your name?"

The man snorted. "Wouldn't you like to know." There were traces of scorn laced in with the nervousness. Laura smiled. She _would _like to know, but mostly she wanted to hear his voice again. She knew the voices of all twelve Cylons fairly well, so there was no mistaking it; this man was definitely human.

"Hmm. Well, I need something to call you." Her voice held a composure that she definitely did not feel. "Can I call you Michael? Your voice . . . it reminds me of a young man I once knew named Michael. He was a student of mine . . . before I went into politics and everything started to go downhill." She forced herself to smile slightly at her own joke—as though she and her kidnapper were merely shooting the breeze in a coffee shop.

"Whatever makes you happy."

"I suppose. Still, I wonder if I know you from somewhere? Your voice sounds so familiar." 'Michael' didn't respond. After a moment, she shifted her shoulders and continued. "It's funny, before New Caprica we hardly used these kinds of restraints. The military had a supply, of course; I think the deck gang used them to tie down equipment. They're too flimsy to hold Cylons, and without a real police force we didn't have much need to put humans in handcuffs."

Still, the man did not speak. Laura didn't let his silence deter her. "Of course, all that changed during the occupation. In the Resistance we used to joke that the Cylons brought in handcuffs by the barrel and food by the thimble. Everyone in detention felt these at one time or another. Were you ever in detention, Michael?"

"No." Again, he didn't elaborate.

"Still, you must have seen them used . . . Everyone lost so much on New Caprica . . ."

"Would you shut up about that frakkin' rock?!"

Laura carefully kept the smile from her face, but she allowed a note of pleasure to creep into her voice. "I knew your voice was familiar. You're Kevin's father, aren't you?" A strained silence followed. Laura kept her tone respectful. "I am so, so sorry for you. He was such a bright boy; I had him in my class for almost a year. Such a tragedy, what happened—"

The fist came out of nowhere—a vicious backhand that caught Laura across the jaw and sent her sprawling. She barely avoided crying out as her weight landed on her already strained shoulders. "Don't you say his name—don't you _ever _say his name!" His voice shook with rage. "My son was murdered on New Caprica by thugs masquerading as police and the toasters that gave the order? They might be strolling around the engine room right now." The deck shook as the man advanced a step. Laura recoiled without thinking. Then, he seemed to regain control of himself. The footsteps receded. The hatch clanged open, then shut and Laura was alone.

With difficulty, she raised herself back into sitting position and felt carefully along the mattress until her stiff fingers encountered the cold bulkhead. Refusing to simply slump back onto the cot, she adjusted herself until she could partially lean against the wall. The cold bulkhead felt good against her throbbing head.

A veteran of both Cylon detention and months of diloxin treatments, Laura was no stranger to pain. Still, the past . . . however long she'd been here had been trying. A wave of fatigue hit her and for a moment she longed to just curl up and die. But, she knew she wouldn't. Instead, she calmly began to catalogue her aches. Throbbing head. Burning throat. Shoulders that felt like they'd been ripped from the sockets. Wrists that were bruised, raw, and—to judge from the slow trickle down her right hand—bleeding. And now, a dull, fading pain in her cheek accompanied by the rapid swelling of her lower lip.

Still, it had been worth it. She'd earned at least two relevant pieces of information for her troubles. _"Strolling around the engine room right now . . ." _Well, that narrowed her location down to about twenty different ships, but since she knew for a fact that _Galactica's _FTL upgrades were complete, she was definitely no longer on the flagship. That was neither good nor bad. Just . . . interesting.

More interesting . . . _"Kevin's father . . ." _When she'd suspected her captor's identity, she'd goaded him deliberately, and his response told her more than she could have hoped. His greatest weapon—anonymity—was now stripped away.

Her kidnapper was Charlie Connor.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

"Good morning, Admiral. Or is it 'Supreme Leader' now?"

Bill glared at Felix Gaeta. Word travelled fast. "Is this a game for you, Gaeta?"

"If it is, it's not much fun."

"Save the comedy routine, Lieutenant; nobody's laughing." Bill paused. "You know why I'm here."

"Yes, and despite the lovely accommodations, I'm not so grateful that I'm willing to roll on my theoretical supporters in a theoretical conspiracy." The words sounded rushed—practiced, almost. Bill realized that Gaeta saw this as his heroic last stand.

Somehow, that only infuriated him more.

His voice was deathly quiet. "I'm done frakkin' around, Lieutenant. You will give me names right now, or things will get very bad for you very fast."

Gaeta stared at him through the bars. It was a tactical, measuring gaze. Gaeta was judging Bill's resolve, trying to predict just how far he was willing to go. Whatever he saw wiped all traces of sarcasm from his face.

Still, his own resolve didn't waver. His response was soft yet definitive. "I have nothing to say. Sir."

Bill stared at the young officer, trying to calm the storm of conflict raging inside him. The decision was made. There was no other way if he wanted to find Laura before it was too late.

Regret weighed equally with anger in his words. "Then, you leave me no choice." Without breaking Gaeta's gaze, he reached over and lifted the phone from its cradle on the wall.

"This is the Admiral. Get me Doc Cottle."


	4. Confrontation

Felix sat perfectly still as Cottle and Ishay arrived in the brig with a mobile hospital in tow. Only his eyes moved—darting ceaselessly from the doctor to his aide to what looked suspiciously like a crash cart. The setup was dominated by a gurney equipped with leather restraints, clearly designed for use on a person who was either convulsing uncontrollably . . . or trying desperately to escape. Ishay pushed a large cart equipped with an electrocardiograph, blood pressure monitor, and other devices Felix didn't recognize. Felix tried to catch Ishay's eye—with his frequent visits to sick bay, he'd become quite friendly with her in recent months.

She wouldn't look at him, and that, more than anything else, terrified him.

Adama stood by the hatch with his arms folded. His expression hadn't changed since he'd first picked up the phone, but now his scowl was mirrored in Cottle's weathered face. "Admiral," the latter growled in a low voice that was far from his usual wise-ass drawl, "I want a word."

Adama locked eyes with the doctor for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "Outside, Major." His rare use of Dr. Cottle's rank escaped no one.

As the two stepped into the corridor, Felix drew a steadying breath and leaned his head against the bulkhead. If he listened hard enough, he could almost hear their angry voices echoing through the cold metal . . .

Ishay had her back to Felix as she spread a few instruments on a rolling tray, but even so, Felix caught a glimpse of a large, intimidating syringe made of steel and glass. Baltar's words about agonizing drugged interrogations—stubbornly disbelieved up to this point—came rushing back. Felix swallowed. He'd wanted so badly to believe Baltar was lying . . .

Unbidden, a familiar accented voice crept into his mind.

"_As perverse as it may seem, I may actually owe these people a debt of gratitude . . ."_

The hatch swung open to readmit the Admiral followed by Major Cottle. Adama's face still hadn't changed. Doc Cottle, though, was wearing an expression of grim resignation. It was a face Felix had seen only once before: when the doctor was preparing to amputate his leg.

Adama nodded to the Marine. "Close the hatch."

As metal clanged on metal, Felix sat very still and focused on breathing in steady, shallow breaths. Trapped. Cornered. Freeze. Don't move—don't bolt or the predator will see you.

"_They forced me . . . to admit my failings . . ."_

The Admiral's voice was brisk. "Is everything ready?"

"Yes sir." Felix almost missed Ishay's soft reply.

"Open the cell."

"_And now that I have I feel positively liberated!"_

Felix fought the urge to shrink back as the Marine's key turned and his one remaining defense rolled away. His fists knotted in the blanket beneath him. Nowhere to go . . . just don't move a muscle . . .

There seemed to be some confusion as to whose job it was to actually retrieve him from the cell. Felix made no move to reach his prosthetic. He wouldn't make their job easier. After a moment, Cottle gave Ishay a curt nod and the paramedic started forward, her hands held out in a placating gesture.

Felix jerked away from her touch. Can't bolt, can't run. Just freeze, but if the predator sees you, you have no choice. You have to—

A new voice.

"_You have to open your eyes . . . to what the world is really like . . ."_

"Lieutenant!" Adama stared at him through the bars, his face impassive. "Don't make us do this, Mr. Gaeta. We just need their names."

Felix swallowed. He drew himself into a ball on the edge of the cot, his eyes darting ceaselessly between Adama and Ishay.

"_You gave me the names, Felix . . ."_

The Marine took a step forward. Adama held up a hand to stop him. The Old Man advanced to the threshold of the cell. "Don't do this, Lieutenant. Don't make this hard."

"_The rest . . . was easy . . ."_

Felix stared down at his clenched fists. Adama nodded to the Marine.

" _. . . perverse as it may seem . . ."_

"_You didn't see them?"_

" _. . . admit my failings . . ."_

"_I'm sure you'll see them tomorrow . . ."_

" _. . . a debt of gratitude . . ."_

" _. . . open your eyes . . ."_

" _. . . positively . . ."_

" _. . . you gave me . . ."_

"_Liberated."_

"Lieutenant Gaeta!"

Felix's head snapped up at the sound of the Old Man's voice. He couldn't quite make out Adama's features; his vision was obscured by a sheen of tears.

"Come on, Felix," Ishay's voice was a mere whisper. She still wouldn't meet his gaze. Felix slowly slumped, his clenched fists loosening. He let Ishay put an arm around him and pull him upright. At a signal from the Admiral, the Marine backed away.

It was only a few steps to the gurney. Felix leaned his weight on Ishay and tried to forget the indignity of it. Reaching the reclining bed, he sat quietly and let them peel off his tanks to attach the EKG leads. As leather straps closed around his wrists, shoulders, ankle, and across his thighs, Felix noted that the mattress was surprisingly comfortable—there was even a pillow. Somehow, this small detail only increased his sense of foreboding. He focused on steady breaths—in and out.

"Lieutenant," Admiral Adama stepped into his field of view. The craggy face was still set in what had become its default expression, but the grizzled hand was surprisingly soft on Felix's forearm. "I'm going to give you one more chance. I don't want to do this. But, I need the names of your co-conspirators."

"_You gave me the names, Felix . . ."_

Felix looked away. The gentle pressure on his arm disappeared.

He sensed more than heard Doc Cottle approach to stand behind his head. He swallowed hard. "What are you going to do?" he whispered, hoping he sounded braver than he felt.

"Shh, It's gonna be alright, son," the doctor murmured heavily. _Son . . . _he'd called him that when he took his leg, too. Tigh had called him that just before sending him on that Raptor.

Cottle's next words were directed at Admiral Adama. "I'm not doing this without a direct order."

Unable to help himself, Felix sought out the Old Man's gaze, knowing the other man would see the fear and helplessness in his eyes. Adama didn't flinch—didn't react at all. His voice was measured. "You are so ordered."

Small hands—probably Ishay's—closed around Felix's head. Cottle's fingers probed his neck, feeling for his pulse. Then . . . a sudden sharp pain followed by a wave of blackness that reached out to engulf him, and Felix let go.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Bill watched as Gaeta's eyelids fluttered closed. Cottle took a close look at the monitor and nodded. "He's under."

They had about two minutes before the hallucinogens took full effect. Bill glanced from Cottle to Ishay. "You know the drill; limit physical contact, no loud noises."

Ishay nodded. Her hands trembled slightly as she secured the heavy leather brace around Gaeta's head.

The young officer began to spasm and stir in the restraints. Bill flicked his small flashlight on and stepped close. "Can you hear me, Lieutenant?" A muffled groan was his only reply. In the background, the quiet beep of the heart rate monitor increased in tempo. Bill directed the soft beam of light onto Gaeta's face and watched his eyelids twitch in response. "Listen to my voice, Lieutenant Gaeta. Can you hear my voice?"

Dark eyes appeared, still half-lidded. The monitors began to beep even faster as Gaeta's eyes darted back and forth erratically, clearly focusing on something none of the rest of them could see.

"Can you hear me, Mr. Gaeta?"

The young man's throat worked. His hands clenched into fists. His voice was tight with anxiety. "Admiral?"

"Yes, it's me. Can you understand me, Mr. Gaeta?"

Gaeta's chest rose and fell in a breath that was almost a gasp. The beat of the heart rate monitor slowed ever so slightly. "Yes sir."

Bill paused. "I need a sitrep, Lieutenant."

Gaeta's eyes resumed their manic motion and the tendons in his neck stood out as he fought the head brace. The beeping picked up, and this time it was joined by a low tone from the blood pressure monitor.

"Lieutenant?"

Gaeta's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

"Listen to my voice, Lieutenant. This is the Admiral. I need you to tell me where you are."

"It's . . ." Gaeta's voice was a hoarse whisper. He swallowed. "It's dark . . . dark and . . . cold. I can't move!"

"Can you tell me anything else, Lieutenant Gaeta? Anything that would tell me where you are?"

"I can't breathe!"

"It's alright, Lieutenant."

"No . . . no it's not . . . I can't breathe because . . . the air will run out . . . leave me alone in the dark . . . blood . . . blood everywhere . . ."

Bill looked away. He had a pretty good idea of what Lieutenant Gaeta saw. "There's a light, Lieutenant. Can you see it?" He brought the flashlight a little closer to Gaeta's face. "Look for the light."

"Yes . . ." Gaeta's heart rate slowed a little. "Yes, I see it . . ."

"Reach for the light, Felix. It's okay. Just reach for the light." Gaeta's erratic breathing slowly stabilized. "Good . . . good . . ." His hands twitched in the restraints. "That's it . . ."

The hum of the BP monitor was cut off as Gaeta's blood pressure returned to safer levels. Bill looked at Cottle. The doctor studied the monitors carefully before giving the Admiral a curt nod. Bill took a deep breath. Best to get this over with.

"Lieutenant," he began carefully, "We're looking for you. We're trying to find you. But you have to help us. You have to tell us what we need to know so that we can bring you back. Can you do that, Lieutenant Gaeta?"

The strain in Gaeta's voice deepened. "You can't . . . can't track us . . . can't follow. Alone in the dark and no one is watching . . . lost . . . can't breathe—use up all the air . . ."

"Reach for the light, Lieutenant."

"It won't last . . . alone . . . all alone and the light is fading. One by one you fall asleep and . . . dead! They're all dead!" Gaeta's heart rate skyrocketed and he began to struggle against the restraints.

"Mr. Gaeta! Felix! Stay with us." The man's frenzied movements slowly subsided. "Mr. Gaeta, we'll find you if you cooperate. Just tell us what we need to know and this will be over. Can you do that?"

"Yes sir." His voice was almost lucid.

"That's good . . . very good Lieutenant. Now, tell us about Zarek."

"Down . . . down is up and up is down . . . At least he says it . . . Disaster's coming . . . a reckoning . . . The numbers are wrong and they'll drop us all straight into a star! The numbers . . . the numbers are wrong . . ."

"What numbers?"

"The numbers . . . the numbers can kill. Swap a six with an eight and it all comes undone. Don't carry the one or we're all gone . . . the numbers . . . they don't work. They're wrong."

"Mr. Gaeta, are you talking about the Cylon model numbers?"

"Swap a six with an eight and it all comes undone . . ." Gaeta trailed off. Bill paused, hoping for more, but instead of speaking, Gaeta began to sing, his voice soft and strained.

"_Alone she sleeps in the shirt of man, with my three wishes clutched in her hand . . ."_

Cottle gripped Bill's arm with alarm in his eyes. "He sang that after his leg was amputated. It's a pain-coping mechanism."

"I know," Bill growled. He moved the flashlight a little closer to Gaeta's face. He gave no response except to murmur the next line.

"_The first that she be spared the pain . . ."_

"Mr. Gaeta?" Bill called softly, "Can you tell us anything more about your situation? Are you injured? Are you physically in pain?"

The singing cut off abruptly. Gaeta drew a shuddering breath. "No . . . no sir. It's just the dark and the cold and the blood . . ."

Bill's jaw clenched. Some gibberish was to be expected with this drug, but Gaeta was beginning to sound truly unbalanced. He strongly suspected that the Lieutenant couldn't take much more of this. _Get the information, _he ordered himself sternly, _Fix it so you can end it._

"You were talking about the model numbers?"

"Swap a six with an eight . . ."

"So what were you going to do about it, Mr. Gaeta? How were you going to fix the numbers?"

"Can't fix the numbers. They don't work. Throw them out . . . wipe the slate and start over . . . do it fast before they kill you . . ."

"What were you going to do?"

"Throw them out . . . get far away . . . start from the beginning . . ."

"Mr. Gaeta, were you planning to execute the Cylons aboard _Galactica_?"

The young lieutenant's body jerked slightly, as though startled out of a deep sleep. "Yes. No other way."

For a long moment, Bill was silent. His hands trembled with rage even as he tried to hold the light steady over Gaeta's face. He didn't speak until he was sure he could control himself. "What about Zarek? He recruited you?"

"He's the leader . . . the vision . . . the revolutionary." Gaeta's fists clenched as his momentary lucidity passed. "But revolutions are paid for in blood! Consequences . . . deadly consequences . . . for him, for me . . . the wound goes bad and the infection will spread . . . you have to cut it off . . . take the germs and the tissue closest to it or the whole person dies . . . but how can you cut off the head? Can you put a new head in its place?"

Bill rocked back on his heels. "The head? Do you mean President Roslin?"

"No. Inaction causes degeneration. Have to stimulate the limb. But the infected parts? The parts closest to the germs? Cut it off before the infection spreads . . . Numb it first, but stay awake. Watch it die . . . he can drop the bomb, but he can't push the button . . . not the leader he was . . . Mutiny? It is mutiny. It's an amputation."

Bill struggled to make sense of the garbled confession. Cottle and Ishay were quicker on the uptake. Both were staring at Bill with expressions frozen by shock. Slowly, it dawned on him. He swallowed hard.

"Lieutenant Gaeta," he began slowly, "This is Bill Adama. Did you plan my execution?"

The young officer strained against the bonds. His face twisted in an expression of agony. A single tear leaked from eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"_But wish no more . . ."_

Mechanically, Bill picked up a damp cloth and gently sponged Gaeta's sweat-soaked forehead. Tactile recognition has the effect of reducing the subject's anxiety levels . . . Only the slight tremor in his hands revealed his inner storm of emotions. "It's alright, Lieutenant. You can tell me. Were you going to have me killed?"

His face crumpled even further. "Yes."

Cottle swore under his breath. Ishay closed her eyes and lifted her fingertips to her forehead in an attitude of prayer. Bill, however, was suddenly numb.

"Who was helping you, Mr. Gaeta? Who were your co-conspirators?"

"It doesn't matter! Put it all on me! I'm a dead man anyway . . . all alone in space . . . everything's dark and the air's running out . . ."

"Give me the names of the mutineers!"

"And the circuits were blown where cables meet blood . . . and the current and the blood are too much for the flesh . . ."

"I need names!"

"And you don't want to look, but the blind man has to see!"

"They've kidnapped Laura Roslin! I need their names!"

"And they show you the math, and it bleeds . . ."

"Tell me their names! Tell me or I'll leave you alone in the dark!"

"And the light burns your eyes and the truth bleeds out . . ."

"Tell me—"

"_But wish no more . . . my life you can take . . ."_

"Admiral," Bill turned at Cottle's low voice in his ear, "You're going about this the wrong way. Let him tell you the why and the who will come out."

Bill forced himself to take a steadying breath. Cottle was right, of course.

"What truth, Mr. Gaeta?"

"The truth about the lie. They look at you and you want to believe them . . . but the numbers don't add up and the body count rises. You don't want to see it, so you look away, but it's still there. It looks at you . . . it bleeds, but it shouldn't be able to bleed! And the blood's all over like it has been all along, but you can finally see it . . . it shouldn't be able to bleed . . . because the body count is rising . . ."

"The body count?"

"Draw the number on the whiteboard . . . different from before . . . Subtract how many? It's the number nobody wants to see . . . but they're not just numbers on a board, they're names on a sheet of paper. Names . . . tell me names . . . No. They're faces I never saw again. Rescued. Safe. But really gone. She said I was pardoned, but she didn't know. Nobody knew . . . but me . . ."

"What are you talking about?"

"New Caprica! It came to me . . . It said it wanted to help . . . and it did. It helped them kill. I gave it their names and it said they were safe, but they died. Their blood was on me, but I didn't see it . . . until the Eight pulled back the curtain and let in the light that blinds. Their blood was on me . . . and then her blood . . . its blood . . . why do they bleed?"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'm not the only one who's blind! It stands next to you and it wears the uniform and it hopes we will forget . . . but I can't forget! I look at it and say 'yes sir,' but it's not a man, however much you want it to be . . ."

"Are you talking about Colonel Tigh?"

"It's not a man! But he wants to be . . . he can't be trusted . . ."

"So who did you trust, Mr. Gaeta? Who were you going to replace him with?"

"The ones who know that the machines are our enemy."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter now; I'm running out of air."

"Who else was involved?"

"Why won't it end? The air runs out and that's it . . . they can bring you home, but home is dead and we're all lost in the dark . . ."

"Who did you trust with this?"

Gaeta's body twisted. He strained against the leather. He opened his mouth to speak, but a thundering voice cut him off.

"What the frak is going on here?!!!"

At the sound of the booming words, Gaeta lost his last shreds of control. The young Lieutenant screamed and twisted, the leather cutting into his skin. The heart rate and blood pressure monitors screeched in alarm. Bill abandoned his efforts with the flashlight and reached for Gaeta's hand. "Lieutenant. Lieutenant! Felix! Listen to me." Gaeta clutched his hand like a drowning man. His screams receded to a gasping whimper. Tears flowed in rivers from eyes that were fixed and unseeing. Bill kept his voice low and comforting. "You're alright, Felix. We're coming for you. We're coming . . ."

Only when the Lieutenant's breathing had slowed and his grip relaxed did Bill turn to see the source of the commotion standing by the hatch, dismay written in his lone eye. Bill handed his flashlight to Ishay and carefully extracted his hand from Gaeta's. "Try to keep him calm." He turned to Colonel Tigh. "Outside," he growled.

Tigh turned stiffly and preceded him out the hatch. In the corridor, he spun to face his superior officer and hissed, "What the hell kind of mad science is going on in there, Bill?"

Bill folded his arms. "It's an interrogation. Nothing more."

"Like hell! You doped him. It's that fear serum we gave Baltar, isn't it?"

Bill looked away.

Saul's eye narrowed. "We swore we'd never use that shit again, Bill. It practically killed Baltar. I thought you had it destroyed."

"We kept some for extenuating circumstances."

"Extenuating? Frak, what happened to not crossing lines you can't come back from?"

"It'll be worth it if he tells us who took her."

"No. No it won't."

The Admiral's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Saul sighed. "Look, Bill, I know how you feel about her—"

"What I feel has nothing—"

"Save it, sir. I know how you feel, but this is bigger than Laura Roslin. This is about your responsibility to your crew. That's an officer in there, Bill—one of _our _officers. This can't be what we do . . . because if it is then we're no better than the toasters who took my eye. I won't stand for that, sir. And deep down, you know you can't either."

Bill looked away. He peered through the crack in the hatch. Ishay was holding Felix's hand and whispering to him in a motherly way.

"He tried to have us both killed, Saul."

"Then he's in good company." Bill looked up sharply, and Saul rolled his eye. "Don't act so surprised, Admiral; you know how mutinies work. Officers get scared and pull a nutty because they can't cope with what they're being ordered to do. Gaeta's a mixed up kid, but he didn't hurt anybody—Roslin included."

Bill remembered his cryptic words about blood and body counts and wondered how true that was.

It didn't matter. He sighed. "You wanted to see me about something?"

Tigh shook his head. "It can wait. See to the kid; there's something I need to check on."

Bill was too tired to inquire further. He turned without a word and stepped into the brig. Felix Gaeta looked very small under so many straps and wires. He'd wanted to see him suffer, Bill realized—for the planned mutiny, for Laura. For the realization that he could no longer trust his officers implicitly.

Trust was earned.

Bill carefully undid the straps and lifted the brace from Gaeta's head. The younger man tried to move, but Bill placed a restraining hand on his forehead. The Lieutenant's wiry curls were soaked in the same sweat that coated his face. Bill reached over and deliberately released his wrist from the restraints, taking the young man's hand in his own.

"Can you hear me, Lieutenant? This is the Admiral."

"I hear you . . . sir . . ." His voice, while shaky, had regained a shadow of its former strength.

Bill swallowed. He might not like the answer, but the question had to be asked.

"Do you trust me, Lieutenant?"

Gaeta didn't hesitate. "Yes sir."

"Then why?"

He closed his unseeing eyes. "The blind man has to see . . ."

Bill nodded slowly. He turned to Cottle. "Give him the antidote."

The doctor already had a syringe ready. "Now, that's the first good idea you've had all day."

Bill ignored the slight insubordination. He held Gaeta's head while Cottle felt for his carotid artery and injected the drug. The antidote worked as fast as its counterpart. Within seconds Gaeta's breathing deepened and his face relaxed. Bill straightened slowly. "How long will he sleep?"

Cottle gave a half shrug. "It's hard to say; these cocktails affect everyone differently."

"I want to be here when he wakes up."

"Then come back in three hours, but bring a book. Ishay can stay and monitor him until then. Now, if you don't mind, I have a few legitimate patients in sickbay, and they've gone neglected during this grand experiment in oath breaking."

"You're dismissed. And Major?"

Cottle turned.

"We still have stores of that serum?"

"I wouldn't call them 'stores,' but I kept a few doses as you ordered."

"Dispose of them."

The ghost of a smile tugged at Cottle's cheek. "That, Admiral, is the _second _good idea you've had all day."

TBC


End file.
